September 27, 2007
Heís preparing steel-cut oatmeal, with the perfect ratio of brown sugar to raisins. He does this silently, methodically and effortlessly tending to the tea kettle, the toaster, and to Brutus simultaneously. I have seen him do this at work, pushing a bolus of Ringerís while drawing up a med, steadying the internís hand against the subclavian while changing a dressing: a machine. The meal is presented on a tray, on the windowsill. He slips away, not wanting to see what will not transpire. He knows that when he comes back, it will have been untouched. Brutus is at my feet.